The Black Hole

by Alan Dean Foster

  "Permission granted. Tell him to keep his eyes open." It was an old joke, but he still grinned inwardly. Vincent had no eyelids to close with.

  "Charlie, you run the lights and scanners. I'll bring us alongside. If you spot anything that looks like an undamaged ship lock, or at worst a single-entry port, say so. A ship the size of the Cygnus should have many. I don't want to waste time hunting through the records for details of her construction. I'm betting we'll find something a lot faster visually."

  "Yes, sir."

  A powerful beam illuminated space between the Palomino and the Cygnus as the smaller vessel nudged nearer the dark hulk. They cruised slowly across the surface. Pizer played the light over the craft as they searched both visually and with more complex but less decisive instruments.

  Quite without warning, they found themselves drifting over a city. A thousand lights winked on below. Their brilliance smothered the single searching beam emanating from the Palomino. Ports and domes glowed radiantly. One moment the Cygnus had been a dead thing. Now she had shown herself to be alive with energy, if not with organic life. Something had finally reacted to their presence. The great ship had awakened.

  "What the devil's going on now?" Durant pressed his face to the lab port. He was straining to see into one or more of the glaring ports below, wishing for the use of a powerful portable scope.

  "Someone's alive down there!" McCrae's first reaction was more emotional than analytical. It was also infectious. Behind her and Durant, Booth was fumbling to set up his recorders. Then he began speaking into one in low, hurried tones.

  "Like the tree on Christmas morning." Pizer's attention shifted regularly from console to port and back again. "Funny. Until now I'd thought of her only as impressive. But she's pretty, too."

  "Pretty or not," Holland said tightly, "we'd better set our warheads in firing position."

  "Hold on, Dan." Pizer sounded surprised at the captain's caution. "They've got to be friendly. I remember how she was armed. They readied her to do battle with imaginary alien hordes that never materialized. She carries a thousand times more firepower than we do. If her internal lights are functioning, we have to assume that her weapons systems are, too. She could have blasted us into plasma if she or anyone aboard had such an inclination, and could have done so on our first pass, without revealing that she is operational. She hasn't done so."

  Holland hesitated before replying. "All right. Well assume the intentions of whoever or whatever's running her now are friendly. Since you're quite right about our being ridiculously overmatched, I guess we might as well proceed optimistically. I just don't like going in naked."

  He checked the main viewscreen, punched for and received several different views of the Cygnus before settling on a particular one.

  "There's the command tower. Whoever turned on the lights is likely to be giving directions from up there. There's a subsidiary structure nearby that's likely to be a docking tower."

  The Palomino swung around, moving toward the large conical shape near the front of the great research vessel. As they passed close, a large viewport set in the Cygnus's upper section came into clear sight.

  "Your side, Dan," McCrae was shouting at the pickup.

  Holland twisted to stare out the port nearby. It seemed as if he could make out shapes moving slowly within the translucent area. Then the Palomino changed attitude and the momentary glimpse vanished.

  "You getting a better view back there, Kate? All I saw were suggestions of movement."

  McCrae and Durant were already repeating computer view tapes provided by the ship's scanners. Even after enhancement they remained maddeningly inconclusive.

  That didn't slow McCrae's enthusiasm. "There are people aboard, Dan!"

  "Just shadows." The man standing next to her tried not to sound too critical. He knew she must still be imagining an unlikely reunion with her father, but he couldn't bear bludgeoning her with reason. Not now.

  Besides, hadn't they already survived a host of highly improbable events? First the discovery of the Cygnus herself, then the inexplicable zero-gravity field enveloping the ghost ship like some supraphysical amniotic fluid. Who could predict what might reveal itself next? It was only slightly more incredible to expect that her father might be on board and alive after twenty years.

  Durant wouldn't be the one to put a damper on her hopes. Let Holland do that. It was his job.

  "They appear to be moving shapes," he added in a more hopeful tone, "but we can't resolve them. Neither can the computer."

  "They're people, Alex." Hope made her more beautiful than ever. "I know it. I feel it."

  "I hope you're right." He smiled back down at her, her inner radiance eclipsing that of the Cygnus. He was very much afraid her hopes were groundless.

  The Palomino slid nearer to the command tower, instrument antennae radiating from her upper sections like the spines of an alloyed sea urchin.

  Pizer's attention was riveted on the less spectacular structure closer at hand. "It's a docking tower, for sure." He gestured at it. "See? There are two extensible walkways.

  "Wonder why they didn't roll out the red carpet earlier. Since everything else on board seems functional, I don't see how they could have missed our orbiting them. For that matter, I think our calls should have made it through the interference. We were close enough." He looked puzzled. "Wonder what's up."

  "I don't know." Still wishing they were properly armed, Holland tried to study the docking tower they were closing on and the imagined location of possible weapons' ports. "And I don't like it. I don't like any of it, but they're calling the shots. We're outgunned and hurting, and we've got to repair our air system. Maybe they have the necessary replacement modules and maybe they don't. We've no choice except to try to find out. Either that or pull off a miracle of microtechnology repair."

  Holland sighed. "Me, I'm tired of surprises. But I'm also fresh out of miracles."

  "Don't look at me, Dan. I'm just your average, well-meaning, hot-tempered co-pilot. I'd want to go aboard even if we didn't have to."

  "Don't get me wrong, Charlie. I'm curious to get inside that grand old mystery myself." He stared down at the enormous length of the Cygnus. "If there is anyone left alive on board and if he feels like talking, he'll have a helluva tale to tell."

  "That's no lie." Pizer grinned. "I can hear Booth drooling over his recorder without using the intercom."

  They eased in tight, main engines silent, using attitude quads to maneuver the Palomino next to the waiting connector umbilical that protruded invitingly from the docking tower.

  Holland's frustration showed as they adjusted and readjusted their position, striving to line up the ship's main air lock with the umbilical. "They should be giving us some help," he grumbled.

  "Maybe someone wants to see what kind of pilot we've got aboard."

  "Pilots," Holland corrected him. "Pay attention to your own end. Let's lock-tight right the first time."

  Temporarily forgotten, the Palomino's advance landing party of one was already active. Vincent released his grip on the ship's hull. Using his built-in maneuvering unit, he scudded the few meters remaining to the end of the connector arm. Armature lasers ready, he upended and peered into the yawning maw of the umbilical. It looked deserted. Taking note of the artificial gravity functioning inside the tube, he adjusted accordingly and moved forward.

  Holland touched one control, then its mate. Four lights blinked in sequence on the main console—bright yellow stars. He fingered two additional controls. Pizer did likewise on his console. Immediately the four lights in front of Holland turned bright green. They stayed that way as a buzzer whooped once, became silent. He leaned back from the console. "We're here . . . come what may."

  Holland spoke toward the com. "Alex, Elate, Harry—we're linked now. I know I can't expect any of you to lie abed and wait for reports. Well go aboard together . . . but I want everyone armed."

  "Dan, do you really think . . .?" Kate began.

>   "Everyone, Kate. That's an order. A pistol doesn't weigh much. I'm not saying I expect we'll have to use them, but we'll be awfully embarrassed if the need arises and our weapons are all resting innocently back here on the ship. You, too, Harry, if you think you can handle one."

  Booth sounded mildly perturbed. "I've had occasion to defend my neck, Captain. I'd rather point my recorders at anything we might meet, but I know which end of a pistol is for business."

  "Good. Assemble at the main lock."

  When they had gathered inside, Holland nodded to Pizer. The first officer performed the final check on the external readouts. "Gravity's point-seven normal. That's about right for an umbilical link. It should be standard one within the ship itself. Atmospheric pressure's about six and a half kilos per, where it belongs, and a little high in oxygen. Nothing wrong with their biosystem." He hefted his pistol firmly, glanced over at Holland. The captain nodded again.

  Pizer thumbed the last switch. The lock door slid aside silently. They heard a slight whooshing as air from within the Palomino mingled with the atmosphere of the Cygnus.

  A blocky, blinking shape was waiting to greet them.

  "Nice work, Vincent." Holland gave the familiar metal flank an affectionate pat. He did not bother to ask if the rest of the connector was safe. Vincent would have informed Kate if there had been any danger.

  "Out of the frying pan," the robot quipped, blithely ignoring the fact that he was a nearer relative of said pan than anything liable to be cooking in it. "Hopefully not into the proverbial fire."

  McCrae moved alongside, eyed the machine critically. "You sure you're all right?"

  "I was banged around a bit when I lost my grip on the hull. Nothing a hammer and a little metal polish can't fix, thank you. It is fortunate that my heart depends on the steady flow of electrons and not on corpuscles and cells, or I might have had an attack when I was floating away from the ship. I am glad my body is not subject to such fragile organic fluxations as thromboses."

  "Stick it in your lubricatory orifice," Pizer advised with a smile. "One of these days you'll suffer a severe oil blockage, and then we'll see who has the laugh. I'll take flesh and blood over cold molybdenoy any day."

  "And you may have it," Vincent shot back, giving a passable version of a metallic shudder.

  "Easy, now," said Holland, interrupting the banter. He pointed down the umbilical. "Company's coming."

  A bright oval of light had appeared at the far end of the connector link. They waited tensely. When the silence and inaction became unbearable, Holland finally yelled out.

  "Hey! This is Daniel Holland commanding the S.S. Palomino! We've had some trouble with our regulator system and we could use some help."

  His plea for assistance produced no more response from the opened end of the umbilical than had his self-identification. No one appeared to call back to them.

  "Looks like we'll have to go to them." McCrae's grip on her pistol loosened. "Funny sort of greeting. First they ignore us. Then they turn on every light on the ship and extend an umbilical for us. And now they're ignoring us again."

  Holland nodded. "This changes things some. Charlie, you stay with the Palomino. We'll use channel C for communication. Linked that way, we ought to be able to stay in touch."

  Pizer started to argue with him, visibly disappointed. "You're going to need—"

  "That's an order, Charlie. You or I have to stay with the ship."

  "And since you have rank . . ." Pizer began tactlessly.

  "And since it's my place to go, and since that's what the regulations say, I'm going and you're staying."

  Pizer slumped, looked resigned. "Yes, sir. You're right, of course. Sorry for the backtalk."

  "Talk back, Charlie. After eighteen months together, you ought to know you can't offend me."

  The first officer's mood lightened somewhat.

  "We have each other to depend on," Holland added, indicating the others surrounding him, "but we all have to depend on you. Keep the ship's eyes and ears open and see what you can find out. It's liable to be more than we will."

  "That's true." Pizer managed a smart salute.

  "Don't worry, Mr. Pizer." Vincent had pivoted to face him. "They also serve who only stand and wait."

  "Vincent, sometimes I think they switched your programming with that of a literary robot. Or were you programmed especially to bug me?"

  "No, sir. To educate you."

  McCrae laughed, a little nervously. Beneath Vincent's easy humor and his very human sense of camaraderie was the unavoidable fact that he contained far more in the way of factual knowledge than any human brain. But this was the first time she had ever heard him even hint at his mental superiority. Her reaction, she knew, was more a reflection of her own hidden, foolish fears than of anything the robot had said. The fact was, she had more reason to fear any human than she did Vincent.

  The comment had no effect on Pizer. "When I volunteered for this mission," he said ruefully, "I never thought I'd end up playing straight man to a tin can."

  "What is a tin can, sir?" Vincent asked, revealing (deliberately? McCrae wondered) a gap in his vast store of information.

  "Antique construction for storage," Pizer informed him. "Wasteful of energy and metal. Remind me to refer you to the correct history tape sometime."

  "All right." Holland, smiling to himself, had to force himself to sound half serious. "End of the lessons all around. Keep your pistols in mind if not in hand, and don't shoot until you see the green of their eyes."

  Holland and McCrae led the way down the umbilical corridor, Vincent in the middle, with Durant and Booth bringing up the rear.

  Pizer watched them depart, feeling a little better for Holland's words but still deeply disappointed. His gaze moved up, then down to stare through the transparent material of the tube. Around him, the floating city that was the Cygnus lay gleaming but still devoid of any sign of life. Silence and light. Well, that was an improvement after eighteen months of silence and darkness. Pizer turned and hurried back inside the Palomino.

  As they neared the end of the corridor, Vincent moved slightly in front of McCrae, taking a more prominent position near the forefront of the little expedition. The movement was not born of some mysterious form of mechanical bravery, though Vincent could have been counted on to supply that necessary intangible in whatever amount might be required. It was a bit of simple logic, one which noted that his metal body was less susceptible to laser fire than human flesh.

  Holland edged close to the end of the umbilical and peered cautiously into the craft. The tube opened onto a large, well-lit chamber. Lavish compared to the energy-conserving, dimmer illumination of the Palomino, the bright light made him blink despite his determination not to.

  Furniture two decades out of style filled the room. Lounges and chairs were scattered about, and free-form glass ports gave the occupants varying views of deep space. There were decorative plants—some real, some artificial—objets d'art, and tape viewers for casual reading placed throughout the area.

  A large, curving desk faced the umbilical Holland now stepped clear of. Its top was bare save for several professional pieces of recording equipment. Holland recognized an already obsolete form of play-back bank, an ident scanner thirty percent larger than current models, and several other devices—all designed to serve in some fashion to record information or provide it. The fact that this chamber was located on a small artificial world made the function of the reception room no less familiar. No one sat behind the desk.

  That was the only expected item missing from the room: a receptionist. The chamber was devoid of official greeters, human or mechanical, but compensated with a feeling they all felt, something sensed but not visible. In a moment Holland realized what it was. There was an aura of petrification about the entire chamber, from the farthest chair to the simple tape viewers.

  "Looks like the place hasn't been used in years," he muttered. "I get the feeling we may be the first official visi
tors since the Cygnus left Earth orbit."

  McCrae and the others had fanned out into the spacious room. "Eerie," she said. "I don't want to sound melodramatic, but . . ."

  "Go ahead," Booth urged her. "The situation almost demands it."

  "I feel like not a few but a thousand eyes are watching us." She was turning in a slow circle, eying the walls. "If so, where are they? Something on this ship turned on the lights, sent out an umbilical and filled at least this section with breathable air."

  Something closed the door to the connector corridor with a plastic snap, sealing them off from the Palomino. Cracking noises came from places in the walls and ceiling. Holland's pistol was neatly vaporized. So were the others. Suddenly Vincent was knocked backward, his own weapons similarly disabled by the flash of precision laser fire.

  "Vincent!" McCrae noted that the others were all right, then ran to check on the metal body that was lurching unsteadily erect.

  "Down, but never for the full count, Dr. Kate." His external lights gradually returned to full strength, resumed pulsing in proper sequence. "Something of a shock. Oh, I don't mean the effects of the beams or their presence. It was the speed and efficiency with which they engaged us. And the accuracy of their aim. Only our weapons were damaged." His optics began sweeping the room.

  "There is at least one major-class mechanical or competent-class human mind functioning on board the Cygnus."

  "Maybe," she said, looking around nervously now and wishing she possessed the robot's methods of perception, "it's the Cygnus's mind. Maybe that's what turned on the lights and sent out the connector for us."

  "I would consider that hypothesis, Dr. Kate, save for one obvious discrepancy."

  "I don't follow you."

  "From our initial circling of the Cygnus to this moment," Vincent observed, "our presence here has been treated with uncertainty. Something or someone is improvising our greeting, acting one step at a time. Machines never act so erratically, only in preplanned sequence. First we are ignored, then welcomed, then fired upon and disarmed, all without our greeter revealing himself. Very unmachinelike. So I am inclined to believe there is a non-mechanical mind functioning in control of or in conjunction with any mechanical consciousnesses that might be inhabiting this vessel."